Black Hours of Night
by midnightisolde
Summary: Across the centuries, the vampire lives on... Adela Greyshaw is a woman who dreams for more than the life late Victorian society can offer. Nightmares are remembered and foretell of things to come. She has heard of the troubles of an acquaintance Dr Seward in the past. Unbeknownst to her, she is caught up in the aftermath and awakens something thought to have been destroyed.
1. Prologue: Hypnopompia

**Prologue**

 **Adela Greyshaw's diary 26** **th** **May 1888. Night**

Darkness surrounding; something there chases and grasps for me. Dreadful paralyse seizes me as the dark figure comes…

Pierced.

I start awake in a sweat of fear; half still sleeping between the dreaming world and conscious reality. The sudden, sharp jab to my neck – oppressive as though a weight bearing down upon me as if to suffocate… Or as though struck by a bullet fired by some unseen assassin in the gloom of night. But not only this. My flesh, so tender upon the vulnerable jugular, feels… _is_ stabbed; pierced by cruel incision by some unknown force.

Hazy memories of the moments before. A dream surely, yet I seem awake. I lay still in fear and alarm for the suffocating penetration, which _feels_ very much real, to begin again. Blood, I am sure seeps from the wound. The warm damp fluid flows upon soft flesh. Yet there is no one here. No one but the darkness of the night, and its uncertain deceit of shadows. My eyes wide with terror roam the shadowy gloom, trying to see though they were not made for nocturnal sight. Only my eyes move, while the rest remains still and my breath shallow while I curse the wild beating of my heart lest some unwholesome force hear it; sense it; desire the life it gives and wish to end it.

It is unbearably real. The sharp incision; pressing down till blood runs red and strong across my throat. I cower into the bed-sheets as though so foolish an action could be my salvation.

Still dazed in mind and vision, faint light-headedness wells up – the loss of blood… What fear and distress is evoked by attack – of penetration by blade, by bullet, or by fangs against so vulnerable a place as the tender throat. How mankind is humbled by his own mortality when faced with the sweet and sudden loss. Yes, the prospect of life's blood flushed out. The irony of the hearts fearful beating hastening one's doom…

But I am half still dreaming. With courage, I touch the place, carefully moving my hand upwards beneath the covers as if a predator would not see… will he - _it_ let me?

Yet there was nothing. Not the wound or blood there, though my mind _feels_ to the contrary. Fading now, yet still the piecing shard of ice twisting sudden into the nape of my neck.

With trepidation, I slipped out of bed and relief comes as light returns to chase away the shadows – the phantoms of the night. The lamp casts only a dim circle of light and throws weird shadows across walls, emerging from the unlit gloom. It is enough.

Outside, the wind howls heavy and rain is cast down from the heavens. Still, moving through darkened corridors, I reached the bathroom and closed myself inside. My eyes reject the harsh light, tired and grown accustomed to darkness as they are though unable to peer through its obscure, misleading mists. They adjust.

I cannot see the blood I expected to be dripping; running down my neck and chest from a hideous wound. Both so vivid in my waking mind are altogether absent.

There is nothing.

And so, relief rising, I return to bed. It is four in the morning; the lightening skies cast dull light through muffling curtains.

Sleep beckons.

My nightmare - my shadowy phantom of the night –a figment of imagination?


	2. Chapter 2 - 'Orrible Murder

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MidnightIsolde

Time-skip to a century later. A spate of murders has been occurring over the past year, reminiscent of a well-known Victorian crime. Delaney, a newly appointed Inspector, takes on his first serious murder investigation. In these crimes, something is amiss and so he calls on a friend he met as a young man, a certain mysterious woman who seems older than her years, for guidance in matters beyond the Living…

' **Orrible Murder**

 **30** **th** **September 1988**

Grim horror flowed as ice within his veins. He had not realised at first, believing the soft, unswerving heap merely a drunkard in drunken sleep, but as his torch flashed across the face he drew back in revolted dread. That face… it was livid with the distortion of gashes upon the soft cheeks and eyelids, from which blood still oozed. Worse, as he recoiled, he was met with the distinct impression that the livid face was turned, with eyes lit with horror that died not minutes before, such that the morbid sight may greet the viewer as a deliberate 'art'. More, he with trepidation blinked his dull torch across the broken form to find yet further disgust. Her blood-soaked clothes, pooled from wounds far more terrible than her poor face. He did not know it, thankfully the poor light obscured the grim truth, but her abdomen was torn open via a vicious incision from the breastbone down. And her throat severed to grotesque obliteration…

All he knew for the time being was that her entrails laid open from the exposed interior; partly drawn out to be laid at the corpse's side. He felt urgent need to evacuate his last meal at this putrid sight.

Once calmer, he notified his superiors of the crime – wilful murder by person or persons unknown. Another woman was dead.

…

''Her throat has been cut – twice in fact. See? One superficial wound, but the deeper one severed the deep structures of the neck to the vertebra. Fortunately for her this was no doubt the fatal wound. I would hate to think the other wounds were inflicted while she still lived.''

Inspector Delaney turned to the Doctor as he spoke. ''What of the lesions to her face? Some occult meaning perhaps?''

''Maybe; maybe not… I cannot say,'' was the Doctor's troubled reply. ''hmm, there are – strange marks to her neck – small incisions, but I do not for the life of me know what made them.'' Doctor Brown removed his glasses, ''it is not a blade, more like some sort of animal bite. How peculiar…''

Delaney, hands drawn up upon his face, had thoughts as well as anxious fears. It had been four mouths and five women had been killed by an unknown hand. The sight of the strange neck wounds made his heart sink with buried memories. Pulling his hands down from his paling face, resolve returning to his hazel eyes, he looked over the marks Doctor Brown was so puzzled by. Drawing a breath slightly as the answer welled up within him by instinct, said he, ''I know someone who might be of help with this particularity. I cannot say what I suspect. Bear with me.''

…..

''It is interesting,'' the female voice said, slightly hoarse and yet still musical. A member of the forensics team strode over solemnly in a white suit, intending to begin the examination. The woman's green eyes shot him a stern gaze, ''not yet. I must look alone.''

''But Sir?!'' the young man protested.

Delaney merely shook his head. ''Miss Greyshaw works her own way. Please, I've told you all to bear with me.''

The man looked from Delaney before leaving. _How strange_ , he thought, _her face is ashen white. Perhaps she's more disturbed by this than she lets on_. _And yet… there's something amiss about her._

''Don't mind him,'' Delaney began quietly as he turned towards the woman, clad in a long black coat with lace-up ankle boots above which the hem of a long velvet skirt could just about be discerned. Upon her head, she wore a dark mulberry coloured doll-hat trimmed with lace and ribbon; pinned slightly off to the side upon a mass of deep auburn hair, swept up in an elegant chignon; the thick hair drawn up in an elaborate, yet simple, mixture of plaits and curls, some hanging loose at the back. Distractedly, Delaney mused for a moment over whether it was all her own hair, and if so it must be very long indeed. He reflected that he'd never seen it down for all the few times he'd ever seen her. She looked like Charles Dana's Gibson Girl.

He snapped out of this fleeting rapture as his eyes caught again the shattered remains of the victim. His female companion's eyes were also drawn towards the sad figure and, with suddenness that caught Delaney off guard; she was already at the deceased side crouched over it.

''She is still warm.''

''Do you have any thoughts?'' he asked.

''Not yet.''

Delaney watched as her eyes roamed over the body, taking in the wounds with what seemed like indifference.

''Hmm, what a mess,'' she said languidly, while ungloving her pale hands to probe carefully, seeming to take a morbid interest in the wounds. She mused that much blood had dried and rusted at the frayed edges of the ripped flesh, but some still oozed in red liquid form through Catherine – yes Catherine that was her name – though her heart no longer beat. Blood scent was still thick in the air, and it piqued Adela's sensitive senses. Red liquid oozing from severed carotid arteries of the neck, Adela touched a long finger into the pooling blood. She stared at her blood covered finger; her mouth feeling dry. Delaney watched this scene open-mouthed as he observed her, knelt beside the bloodied body, and traced her finger to her mouth to lick the lukewarm, coppery liquid; pale finger slipped between her plump red lips; her green eyes turned knowingly toward Delaney, and glinted a hint of red.

The mischief and latent rapture both aroused and enraged him.

Reality seizing him, he spoke through gritted teeth, ''enough – the woman is dead. I asked you here for your opinion, not for you to indulge your disgusting ways. I _know_ what you are.''

Grimacing in a mixture of apology and defensiveness, Adela replied, ''yes what I am… her blood does not taste to my liking anyway... But it lets me know things.''

In that drop of dead blood was a glimmer of memory. A meeting; an agreement; a walk to this mouldering corner of an East End backstreet and then a transaction, but one that did not go as the woman intended. Adela felt Catherine's fear as she saw the knife; saw flickers of the woman's life rush in her mind as the man with strangled her and opened his to bite with monstrous fangs; slit her throat with the long knife and clamped his mouth over the wound to drink the blood; and then… death.

''Well?'' Delaney reproached, folding his arms.

''It is unclear.'' She was aware that it was quite possible for a human serial killer to have a vampire fixation or delusion, but she knew that this was the work of a Nosferatu.

''Explain. Is it by one of _your_ kind?''

She scowled haughtily. ''The bite marks would suggest it, if that's what you mean. A human could bite someone, but not like this… although evidently not the work of someone experienced. But why the surgical mutilations? That's the realm of a human killer, rather than an undead one.''

He ran his hand through his hair anxiously. ''So, is it the same hand as the others or… something else? They had bite marks, but not this deep.''

The wan girl smiled, ''I know you think I'm able to do and know many things beyond that of mortal men, and that is true. But… I can't do or know everything.'' She circled around the body slowly, ''it's too crude to be the work of someone long experienced as a creature of the night.''

Looking over his shoulder, Delaney spoke softly, ''but it is a vampire. The bite marks – they're the first good lead we've had in this series –''

''But how do you know it's the same killer if they were not so evident on the others?'' she teased.

''Modus Operandi.''

''Very well. But still – food for thought is it not?'' Delaney exchanged looks with the redhead. ''this man operates like a human serial killer because he is one. Very much like the one in Whitechapel a century ago. Perhaps it's inspired by it… it's a heady mixture of rage, lust and method, that's for sure. No rape, but doubtless there is a morbid pleasure in the kill and bloodlust. Must be a fledgling undead, but such desires are not new in him, no – he's already acted on them in the previous kills…''

Delaney observed her as a momentary shadow crossed her face. Was she self-reflecting? He wondered if she felt similar bloodthirsty desires – and felt guilty for it?

Her eyes turned suddenly on him, embers of red in the green. ''So little you must think of me and presume. A vampire need not desire things in so depraved a manner. Bloodlust - Yes. Sadism – quite possible. Sexual pleasure – often. But _this_ is human. Sometimes a kill might be for 'fun', but usually a necessity of hunger. Tormenting a victim might be a pleasure for some.'' She walked towards him and stared at him pointedly, ''also, I think being dead ourselves, we don't show such disrespect to the remains of someone we have fed upon. The less sentient variety may not care so much of course.''

''A zombie?''

''No – too methodical for a _Ghoul_ ,'' she shook her head. He could have sworn she almost laughed at this. Apparently, vampires were disdainful of certain cruder members of their kind. All were beasts in truth though, Delaney thought, Ghouls were simply a more honest expression of the truth. Even her – despite her outward reserve, was truly a demon behind that pretty face. It disturbed him often to think that behind her rosebud lips was a mouth that could tear his flesh to ribbons. It was a morbid thought.

''I think,'' she continued, ''it is a recently turned vampire, but one who was already a killer as a living man.''

''Perfect candidate to be one of your lot then,'' Delaney replied dryly.

She shot him a look. ''Well in any case, you've got a serial killer with vampire abilities now. The question is, who turned him…''

Delaney watched her as she stalked away, deep in thought. ''Surely the more pertinent issue is finding the bastard who did this!''

''For you,'' she said softly. ''And, if there's a vampire turning people with this tendency, it could be a problem.'' And with this she started to leave him.

''Where are you going?'' Delaney asked as she stalked off into a dark alley. ''Why don't you stop with us?''

She smiled wryly, ''it is late. I'm tired and wish to sleep for the night is almost over. And I'm very thirsty. Are you going to invite me for a… bite?'' she chucked and her laugh had musical softness and richness simultaneously; her mouth forming into a slight grin which granted him a glimpse of her fangs in the gloom. She sidled up to him and drew close; her voice a sultry whisper, ''what do you think of that, James? Would you invite me?''

Silenced by her close presence, he spoke finally as his stupor lifted and he backed away from her. ''Don't push it. I respect you, Adela, because you saved me that time, but I cannot forget what you are. I'm sure you were a nice girl once, whenever that was anyway, and I'm sure you not that bad compared to others. But you're a killer. Were it not for your helping sometimes, I'd be giving Special Investigations a call to cut off your head and put a stake through your heart. I'm sure you're aware of the Hellsings. But, you know, it might give you relief.''

''Ah yes,'' she grinned with a strange sort of humour. ''I know it's a sensitive thing for you, but it's no good blaming me for things that were not my fault.''

''Regardless,'' he breathed, ''some other evil bloodsucker killed my wife and daughters. I'm sure you were not a bad person and are not a complete monster now, but you've got it in you. The bastard that turned you ruined you. You are helpful and friendly enough, Adela, but in the end you're just a… well you know.'' He lit up a cigarette as they stood in the shadows. The investigation team moved in. It was raining. Half to himself he said softly, ''how could you let such an awful creature do that to you?''

Adela's gaze was averted and she replied quietly, ''don't you have other things to think of?''

Stiffening, he said, ''yes.''

He watched as she strolled away into the night; disappearing into the Darkness, one with it as she was in the Black Hours of Night.


End file.
